The Arthur Machen Megapack: 25 Classic Works Read Online Free PDF Page A

pride and delight when one day, being at Dover, with a fresh autumn wind blowing from the sea, I bought a chance copy of the paper and saw my essay on the front page. Naturally, I was encouraged to persevere, and I wrote more turnovers for the Globe and then tried the St. James’s Gazette and found that they paid two pounds instead of the guinea of the Globe, and again, naturally enough, devoted most of my attention to the St. James’s Gazette. From the essay or literary paper, I somehow got into the habit of the short story, and did a good many of these, still for the St. James’s, till in the autumn of 1890, I wrote a tale called “The Double Return.” Well, Oscar Wilde asked: “Are you the author of that story that fluttered the dovecotes? I thought it was very good.” But: it did flutter the dovecotes, and the St. James’s Gazette and I parted.
    But I still wrote short stories, now chiefly for what were called “society” papers, which have become extinct. And one of these appeared in a paper, the name of which I have long forgotten. I had called the tale “Resurrectio Mortuorum,” and the editor had very sensibly rendered the title into “The Resurrection of the Dead.”
    I do not clearly remember how the story began. I am inclined to think something in this way:
    “Old Mr. Llewellyn, the Welsh antiquary, threw his copy of the morning paper on the floor and banged the breakfast-table, exclaiming: ‘Good God! Here’s the last of the Caradocs of the Garth, has been married in a Baptist Chapel by a dissenting preacher; somewhere in Peckham.’” Or, did I take up the tale a few years after this happy event and shew the perfectly cheerful contented young commercial clerk running somewhat too fast to catch the bus one morning, and feeling dazed all day long over the office work, and going home in a sort of dimness, and then at his very doorstep, recovering as it were, his ancestral consciousness. I think it was the sight of his wife and the tones of her voice that suddenly announced to him with the sound of a trumpet that he had nothing to do with this woman with the Cockney accent, or the pastor who was coming to supper, or the red brick villa, or Peckham or the City of London. Though the old place on the banks of the Usk had been sold fifty years before, still, he was Caradoc of the Garth. I forget how I ended the story: but here was one of the sources of “A Fragment of Life.”
    And somehow, though the tale was written and printed and paid for; it stayed with me as a tale half told in the years from 1890 to 1899. I was in love with the notion: this contrast between the raw London suburb and its mean limited life and its daily journeys to the City; its utter banality and lack of significance; between all this and the old, grey mullioned house under the forest near the river, the armorial bearings on the Jacobean porch, and noble old traditions: all this captivated me and I thought of my mistold tale at intervals, while I was writing “The Great God Pan,” “The Red Hand,” “The Three Impostors,” “The Hill of Dreams,” “The White People,” and “Hieroglyphics.” It was at the back of my head, I suppose, all the time, and at last in ’99 I began to write it all over again from a somewhat different standpoint.
    The fact was that one grey Sunday afternoon in the March of that year, I went for a long walk with a friend. I was living in Gray’s Inn in those days, and we stravaged up Gray’s Inn Road on one of those queer, unscientific explorations of the odd corners of London in which I have always delighted. I don’t think that there was any definite scheme laid down; but we resisted manifold temptations. For on the right of Gray’s Inn Road is one of the oddest quarters of London—to those, that is, with the unsealed eyes. Here are streets of 1800-1820 that go down into a valley—Flora in “Little Dorrit” lived in one of them—and then crossing King’s Cross Road climb very steeply